Cohost writing prompt: @make-up-a-starship-pilot — Starship pilot who’s flying blind
This is the part that you cannot get used to: not the weird things that the FTL drive does to gravitational attraction, not the indescribable horrible oily silence while it's engaged, not the part where it always smells like something inside the drive has burned out.
No; it's the part where you can't navigate FTL by sight, and you start Ganzfeld hallucinating and trying to dodge stuff that's not even real if you can't see, so they put a chip in your brain that lets them prep you for jump by completely turning your eyes off.
Almost everything in the procedure can be automated. But they still need you to fly, and by god the day they try to streamline out the Jump Coordinator role is the day you quit.
Keimore holds one of your hands and talks you through it, like the two of you do every time.
"Okay, slick, you ready? We'll count down from five."
"Nope. Nuh-uh. Not ready." You shake your head, puff your cheeks out, take a few more deep breaths. "Okay. Ready as I'm gonna get."
"Okay. I've got you. Five — four — three — two — one—" and there it goes, sight turned off at the visual cortex. You clutch her hand, hyperventilating.
"I've got you," she says patiently. "You're okay, I've got you. Breathe. In—"
They don't pay her enough to put up with you.
"Name five fruits," she says, to derail your impending panic, and you stumble through banana, peach, strawberry, several repetitions of fuck you, tomato technically—
("See, you're doing great!"
("Fuck you.")
—melon.
"Four sports?"
Hockey, football, swimming, fuck you cycling?
"Three star signs."
Gemini, Libra, Taurus.
"Two flowers."
Roses. Foxglove.
"Hottest girl you ever kissed."
"Your mom."
"See? You're fine." She squeezes your hand, laughing. "Ready to spool the drive?"
"Sure. Yeah."
She has to let go of your hand. God, FTL is the worst.